


To dream of you

by Maegfen



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post episode 2x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2444126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maegfen/pseuds/Maegfen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What do you want Agent Keen?" - Lizzie struggles to deal with persistent dreams of Red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, new fandom, new fic :)  
> I only starting watching The Blacklist a few weeks ago; I literally binge-watched the whole first season the weekend before the second started... I fell hard and fast for these two and here's my first contribution. I'm not 100% satisfied with it, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless :)
> 
> There's a second chapter almost ready to go too, I should be able to post it tomorrow before the next episode airs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dream repeats every couple of nights. Sometimes it’s Tom who attacks her, sometimes it’s Gina Zanetakos, sometimes even Berlin himself. But every time Red saves her, every time Red asks her the same question…  
> “What do you want Agent Keen?”

_“What do you want Agent Keen?”_

The words slip quietly from his mouth, cold and determined, and cause her to wake fitfully. Her hand clenches around the handgun that lies under her pillow and the warm metal slips against her sweaty palm. Lizzie carefully sweeps a stray lock of hair from her face with her free hand as she slowly rises to sit up. The room is quiet and she is temporarily disorientated by the lack of anyone else’s presence.

Even in the waking world she can’t help but immediately seek him out; her gaze drifting to the wall opposite and landing on his photo. He isn’t looking at the camera, but he _is_ dressed in a tuxedo. Lizzie feels her heart flutter and isn’t entirely sure why.

As she dresses for another day at work her eyes continue to wander over to the photo and Lizzie wonders if he’ll be making his presence known today.

_“What do you want Agent Keen?”_

Lizzie hears the echo of the question drift through the air, but she ignores it, ignores the implications, ignores the rush of _want_ that flows through her when she remembers the look upon his face; dream or no, it’s enough to make Lizzie want to turn around and hide from the world.

The dream repeats every couple of nights. Sometimes it’s Tom who attacks her, sometimes it’s Gina Zanetakos, sometimes even Berlin himself. But every time Red saves her, every time Red asks her the same question…

_"What do you want Agent Keen?”_

 

* * *

They plague her sleep often enough to become a concern. She has no one to confide in though; the one person she can trust with most things is the one person she can’t reach out to when she feels she needs him most…

It frustrates her, having to settle for his touch in her dreams and his seemingly cold indifference when she’s awake; it’s not how they should be – it feels _wrong_.

The dreams are an annoying distraction, plucking her from precious sleep and now the thoughts and disturbances are leaking into her work. She’s still able to do her job, but she can’t shake the feeling that everyone knows the reason _why_ she seems distant in the meetings. Ressler knows something’s up by the way he watches her when he thinks she doesn’t notice. Lizzie's been around Red long enough to know when someone's keeping tabs, and her instincts are now always on high alert; afraid that her partner with discover her secret and expose it for the world to see...

Aram asks her if she’s ok one morning, cup of coffee in one hand and a small pastry in the other. She accepts the items gratefully, passes off his concern with a smile and watches him retreat to carry on another conversation with Samar.

She is left alone once more, the man who plagues her thoughts out of town for the week on business.

Lizzie feels isolated in the middle of the Post Office and finds herself staring blankly at her computer screen while remembering the way Red had kissed her the night before… the dreams are seeping into reality and she finds herself wondering if she’s going mad.

_“What do you want Agent Keen?”_

 

 

* * *

 

“What do you want Agent Keen?”

_She is still breathing heavily as the words leave his mouth. His gaze holds her own, until she blinks, shattering the moment. Red’s eyes sweep over her legs and she shivers; he might not be touching her, but she feels the ghost of his touch all the same._

“What do you really want?”

_She doesn’t answers, finds herself incapable of the seemingly simple act of replying. Instead, she just stares at him, taking him in, reluctant to voice anything, reluctant to ruin whatever this is._

“I think I know,” _Red continues, his confidence in his words clear in the way he holds himself._ “I think I know exactly what you want…”

_Lizzie shuts her eyes at his tone; low, husky, dangerous. She’s always been drawn to his voice, the elegance with which he speaks; taken in by the authority or innuendo that he throws out at will and with no apparent idea of the effect it has on those around him._

_His hand moves slowly and traces up her leg, starting at her bare calf; feather light touches as his fingers sweep across her skin. Goose pimples line the path he ghosts over her thigh._

_Lizzie stops breathing, just for a second, savoring the touch; it’s been so long, too long, since anyone touched her like this – like she was something precious and worthy of love._

_She knows it’s a dream, that this is all in her mind, but she relishes the feeling of his touch nonetheless. This is Red and if anyone could love her, could treat her the way she needs, the way she maybe deserves, it’s him._

_He’s still wearing his ever present hat and Lizzie smiles as she sits up a little straighter. He instinctively leans down; predicting her intent and her smiles broadens as she carefully takes the fedora off his head and places it on the old battered nightstand beside her._

_Lizzie glances over at the far wall, but Tom’s body is gone, no longer necessary in the fantasy that is playing out between them. They are completely alone, no specters loitering in the shadows to ruin the moment._

_Red follows her gaze and chuckles, a smile on his face as he turns back to look at her._

“Oh come now Agent Keen, you should know you’d never need an excuse to get me into your bedroom.”

_He moves to sit on the bed, leaning across her body to put an arm over her hip to rest on the blankets that lay crumpled on the other side of her._

_Red leans closer, breath hot on her cheek as he exhales softly. Lizzie breathes in, takes in the familiar scent of his cologne. She closes her eyes, taking in his presence as he leans in further._

_His arm is still leaning across her body, providing him with the support he needs as he leans towards her. The other ghosts up her ribs, under her tank top, the touch sending another wave of shivers down her spine. Red chuckles at her obvious reaction to his fingers upon her skin, and, as quickly as he placed them there he removes them. His hand moves up her body, tracing the outline of her breasts over the itchy fabric of her top before moving to cup the back of her head, pulling her closer. His lips break into another small, devilish smile as he leans forward, finally, for a…_

Lizzie wakes, heart racing, frustrated, confused and with the imaginary feeling of his lips on hers. She finds she aches for his touch.

 

* * *

 

When she sees Red one day as he enters her office, wearing the exact same outfit that plagues her in her dreams she loses the plot…

_(“Good morning Lizzie, it’s a beautiful day don’t you think? I brought some of those donuts you federal types seem to crave to stave off your inevitable morning hunger. So, what do you want Agent Keen? Strawberry, rasp…”_

_His tone is jovial, teasing, but it’s too much, too soon, she’s not prepared for this, to hear the words slip from his actual lips, haunting her like the dangerous temptation she knows he is…_

_“Damn it Red, just leave me alone!”_

_He’s visibly startled for once in his life, but she ignores him and storms out of the room…)_

When he finds her sitting on the metal staircase half a building away, he doesn’t say a word, just offers her a cup of coffee, a sugary donut and his company. Lizzie sighs, smiles and is thankful for the fact that he doesn’t push for answers to her odd behavior. It seems that out of everyone, Red is the person _least_ likely to demands answers and reasons. He just accepts what she’s willing to give.

 

* * *

 

_"What do you want Agent Keen?"_

She really doesn’t know, not really. Lizzie thinks she wants peace, or at least the semblance of it; just enough to get a full night’s rest or some time to recover. Cooper was right; she hasn’t grieved, but there’s been no time, the relentless pursuit of Berlin and Tom enough to keep her focused but awake most nights.

And then, when she does sleep, her dreams are taken up with thoughts of her and Red and all the confusing feelings that go with him.

 

* * *

 

_"What do you want Agent Keen?"_

She’s glad he never uses her first name in her dreams, is thankful that at least when he calls her Lizzie she knows she’s in the waking world. It doesn’t stop her pausing every time she sees him though, wondering if this time he’s going to ask her, tempt her…

The fantasy of his kisses leave her wanting and more confused in waking than she ever realized was possible. Her confusion causes her to make simple mistakes; not enough to jeopardize her career, but enough to get Cooper's attention. Lizzie glares at Red when she next sees him, but he merely ignores her furious look and smiles instead. She instantly dismisses the flutter that rushes through her stomach at the sight...

 

* * *

 

The dreams continue, but the scenes change, slowly but surely. Red no longer merely rescues her in her motel, but the Post Office, her old home, his jet… all the locations she’s been with him come into play. The result is always the same though. He saves her ( _every time, always_ ) and then the inevitable…

_"What do you want Agent Keen?"_

 

* * *

 

She manages to keep a clear head from time to time, the nature of her work forcing her to compartmentalize and ignore the feeling low in her gut that everything in her life is about to spiral out of control again.

But she can’t keep seeing him in her dreams as well as during the day. And seeing as the dreams refuse to stop, refuse to let her rest, well then it is the waking version of Red that must be sacrificed for the sake of her sanity.

Her relationship with Red is off kilter as a result – it’s all her own doing, she knows this – but for a pair who have become more and more in sync over the last months, the missteps and awkwardness are more telling than the loud arguments she wishes they’d had…

He notices; of course he does. But he continues much as he ever did, demanding her attention and leading on so many wild goose chases that her head spins from the constant toing and froing. When she needs some space, some time away from him, he inevitably appears, ready to escort her to some far off party or local restaurant in the name of the list. And yet, _and yet_ , when he isn’t present, just when she thinks she should be thankful for his absence, she _misses_ him, and suddenly the version of Red that haunts her dreams seems like a poor substitute after all.

 

* * *

 

When Red takes her arm one day, as they walk casually through the throngs of weekend shoppers, Lizzie holds back a breath, the warmth of his hand seeping through his suit and her sleeve. The touch burns, transporting her back to her dream the previous night when he teased and touched, fingers trailing over every part of exposed skin.

She closes her eyes, focuses on the sensation of his touch and immediately regrets it; this is dangerous territory she knows, but somehow the pull of this man by her side is too great, too overpowering to ignore.

If he notices the flush that sweeps across her cheeks, he doesn’t comment. But then, he rarely does.

 

* * *

 

Her feelings seem to sneak up on her. At least, that’s what Lizzie tells herself. She’s good enough of a profiler to know she’s in denial, that the dreams have been leading her towards an inevitable conclusion for weeks; she’s just refused to face the facts. But then, denial has always been easier than the truth so why change the habit of a life time?

Lizzie slowly accepts it, accepts how her view of him has shifted, transformed and grown. She _wants_ him, she knows this, understands. But knowing and dealing are two different things and Lizzie fights hard to separate her feelings from her thoughts, to detach herself from them in a bid to hide her secret from the world and from the man involved especially.

She fails, miserably.

 

* * *

 

_"What do you want Agent Keen?"_

In her dream she breathes, slow and steady, trying to contain her rushing pulse. His eyes glance over her again, tracing up her legs before his eyes snap to hers. He doesn’t say anything else, just raises an eyebrow, tilts his head and waits. She knows now is the moment, the time to face her fear, her desire, her wish. If she can voice it here, maybe she can move on… Lizzie takes another deep breath in, exhales slowly and maintains the eye contact with Red, eyes steady. She whispers, quiet so as not to break the precious illusion…

For the first time in all of the dreams she’s had that involve the two of them, she answers his question, eyes snapping to his in sincerity as she speaks.

_"You…"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think; kudos and comments make my day :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Her partnership with Red has always been an easy target, open to interpretation, undefinable by everyone and anyone who is witness to it..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second and final chapter for you all. I was going to split it, but in the end I decided against it. I apologise for the slight shift in style towards the conclusion; hopefully you won't find it too jarring :)

The knowledge that she wants him,  _needs_  him, proves a greater distraction than the dreams ever did. Lizzie tracks his movements every time he’s in the room, misses him when he isn’t. It’s pathetic, she thinks, to want a man that has proved so dangerous. But then, she’d been married to a murderer for over 2 years so there shouldn’t be any surprise that she has a  _type_.

Red says nothing on the topic of her distraction; he is preoccupied with tracking Berlin, helping Naomi Hyland, dealing with his own personal issues; Lizzie is sure he wouldn’t appreciate having to deal with whatever confused feelings she might throw his way. It is her burden to bear, of that she’s sure.

Their relationship is more on edge than ever, her distraction clear for everyone to see; she’s surprised Cooper hasn’t confronted her about it yet. She’s grateful; she wouldn’t know what to say to him once the accusations start flying.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it isn’t Cooper who confronts her, but Ressler. It’s not surprising really, her partner’s being eyeing her suspiciously for too long not to break down and corner her eventually.

It’s a few days after she's accepted the truth about her feelings for Red, and Lizzie’s emotions are still feeling raw and painful; she’s not in the mood to be prodded and poked and accused of things she can’t control. She watches as Ressler wanders into their office and he stops suddenly by her side. He leans casually against her desk, folds his arms across his chest and waits, watches. He's eyeing her warily and Lizzie wonders if he's been talking to others about her, gossiping, spreading rumors. It wouldn't surprise her; her partnership with Red has always been an easy target, open to interpretation, undefinable by everyone and anyone who is witness to it, including herself. Lizzie has long suspected that people have been taking notes about the two of them, ready to blackmail and discredit her at a moment’s notice; she works for the FBI, she wouldn’t put it past them.

Eventually he breaks the silence.

"What's going on with you Keen?"

She's mid-report, her focus on remembering exactly what it was Red had done to warrant two helicopters to be called in for backup earlier that afternoon. Lizzie finds she’s in no mood to pander to Ressler’s blatant attempts to dig into her personal life.

"There's nothing going on with me," she replies quickly, and she can tell by her partner's raised eyebrow that he doesn't believe her.

"Keen, you've been staring at that screen not writing anything for twenty minutes. Something's bothering you."

She doesn’t dignify him with an answer, instead choosing to pretend to drink from the long empty cup of coffee by her side.

Ressler sighs heavily and shifts his approach, going for the more friendly tone that he usually breaks out for the more sympathetic suspects they detain; she isn't sure whether to be grateful or insulted.

"Look," he starts again, waving at her vaguely. His eyes narrow slightly in accusation and Lizzie has to hold back the urge to push past him and get as far away as possible. "I didn't want to have to tell you this, but people are worried, Cooper especially. You've become distracted on the job, your standards are slipping..." he pauses as he spots her attempting to deny the claims. "There’s not enough evidence to get you transferred or fired, but you need to be careful. Is it Reddington?"

The speed with which he changes subject throws her for a loop, and she glares at him. Ressler doesn't back down. Instead, he sees her anger as confirmation of his own suspicions.

"I know he pisses everyone off from time to time, but you've got to deal with it Keen; you’ve got to deal with _him_."

Lizzie doesn't know how to reply because when it comes down to it, Red isn't to blame at all; not really.

 

* * *

  

Ressler’s warning sticks with her in the days that follow, the accusations niggling away at her waking thoughts. The dreams persist, but since she’s faced up to her feelings they’re worse _(better_ ), harder to explain. She wakes up most mornings reaching for a man who isn’t there, the space beside her filled not by Red but by the ever faithful Hudson.

Lizzie focuses on making a conscious effort to appear alert, on task, despite the turmoil that roils through her brain every waking hour. She’s determined to ensure that Cooper and Ressler and everyone else at the damn Post Office have nothing to complain about, nothing to use against her. She tries to ignore the way that Red smiles at her when he enters the room, ignores the way he finds _any_ excuse to touch her. The feel of his hand on the small of her back or his fingers slipping over her wrist wreak havoc on her senses, overloading and overwhelming her. With each touch in the waking world she feels her defenses crumbling until she feels like sharing her secret with anyone who'll listen and damning the consequences.

 

* * *

 

Her attempts at ignoring Red and the overarching issue of her confusing feelings are so poor that Lizzie lasts barely a week before she feels the urgent need to re-evaluate her whole outlook on the situation. She decides that, instead of awkwardly trying to ignore him, she should embrace the circumstances; savor Red’s touch in reality as much as she does in her continuing dreams, if only to find a semblance of peace as she struggles to get through each working day. Lizzie resolves, late one night when she awakens, frustrated and on edge from her most vivid dream to date, to confront her feelings, refuse to allow them to dictate her actions at work. She figures that if she tries hard enough she might just get over this, over _him_.

It backfires horrifically.

 

* * *

 

Red seems to sense the moment when she’s back to her ‘usual’ self, and he doesn’t hesitate to immediate ramp up his efforts to play the ever attentive figure that she’s missed over the last few weeks. Having him closer to her has the opposite effect that Lizzie wanted; his nearby presence only heightens her awareness of him, despite her pleas with her body to ignore him, to place her focus on something else; on work, on anything that isn't  _him_.

 _(Deep down she knows this was inevitable, that she stood no chance of moving on. Lizzie thinks her mind has done it all on purpose, to add fuel to the raging fire of_ want _that seems to burn her every night…)_

 

* * *

 

Still, she manages, slowly but surely, to place most thoughts of herself and Red aside while they’re at work. He seems to be aware that she occasionally needs space, doesn’t argue when she withdraws to her office with the pretense of completing a stack of imaginary paperwork. The relationship improves gradually; it’s like they’re right back at the beginning again, the first tentative steps towards a partnership they hadn't needed to work on before Berlin arrived on the scene.

Lizzie copes, compartmentalizes, adapts. The dreams persist, but she ignores the loneliness, the ache when she wakes and focuses the energy on improving her standing at work and with her FBI colleagues once more.

It works, for the most part.

Until everything goes terribly wrong.

 

* * *

 

It all comes to a head on a cold, drizzly morning in November. She ducks when she should have dodged and nearly ends up in the morgue rather than the ICU when she pays more attention to Red’s position than her own during a shootout with the latest blacklister. The fall to the road seems to go in slow motion, the pain as the bullet rips through the flesh of her side excruciating.

Red is next to her in an instant, eyes searching hers to find a reason for her almost fatal distraction on the job, while he shouts for Dembe to call the paramedics.

His fingers tightly press his handkerchief to the wound in her side; the tips brush against her ribs, rhythmic and soothing as her blood seeps through the expensive silk. Lizzie almost spills her secret to him then, as she lies bleeding and cold in the middle of the street. When she feels his fingers link slowly through hers she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and slips into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, when she’s discharged from the hospital with clear instructions to rest for the remainder of the week, she finds Dembe waiting for her outside. He’s leaning almost casually against the familiar Mercedes, seemingly unconcerned by the light shower that scatters rain across the parking lot. He doesn’t say a word, just eyes her with concern and opens the back door of the car. Red isn’t inside and Lizzie is immediately thankful for his temporary absence; as least she’ll have some precious time to attempt to compose herself before their inevitable confrontation.

The drive to Red’s latest safe house seems to take hours, but when Lizzie checks the watch on her wrist the journey has only taken 20 minutes. The light shower has gotten heavier in the meantime, the constant sway of the windscreen wipers hypnotic in the quiet of the car and she feels the pull of the man waiting in the modest (for him at least) townhouse they pull up to. Lizzie wonders what will happen in this quiet little building in the middle of nowhere.

Dembe shows her in, careful to keep her under the umbrella he has procured from the trunk of the car. He nods once as she crosses the threshold of the house and he leaves the building again, muttering a quiet remark about a “security check.” Lizzie realizes that he’s leaving Red and herself alone to deal with the fallout of today – she isn’t sure whether she appreciates the privacy or not.

Red is standing with his back to her as she enters the main room of the house, tumbler of scotch in one hand, the other resting limply by his side. His fingers, however, tap rhythmically against his thigh and Lizzie suddenly pictures him playing the piano. Her thoughts drift back to her dreams; would his fingers glide across the keys of a piano as gracefully as they do across her skin? The dreams have become so vivid that she struggles to differentiate between fantasy and reality. Lizzie feels a shiver run through her as she imagines his fingers playing invisible melodies across her skin. She shakes her head to clear the image of Red’s fingers upon her body and looks at the man himself before carrying on further into the room. He finally acknowledges her approach and turns to look at her, a concerned look on his face.

“Lizzie,” he starts, placing the small glass on the mantelpiece and moving slowly towards her. “How are you feeling?”

He gestures vaguely towards her ribs, where the dressing tugs at her skin making movement uncomfortable, the jolt of pain a reminder of just  _why_  she is here. Lizzie has a suspicion that he doesn’t mean her side at all; that his concern is for her overall health not just the wound that mars her skin.

She wants to tell him she’s absolutely fine, that there’s no need for concern, but when she looks at him,  _really_  looks at him she breaks, just a little. She’s not seen this level of worry on his face for months. She’s spent so long concentrating on dealing with her own feelings that she’d forgotten that he had so many of his own…

“I could have died today…” she states simply after several long moments of silence. Lizzie looks him in the eye, knowing that she’s set off on a path that she can’t turn back from. Her wound hadn’t been fatal, but it  _could_  have been, if not for her instincts…

Red looks slightly startled at her admission, and he nods, once simply to acknowledge her words.

“Yes. You nearly  _did_.” His voice is hoarse, as if voicing the words causes him pain; she knows him well enough to think that it probably does. She wonders just how close she’d come to bleeding out in the street…

“I’m sorry,” she says then, feeling the urge to apologize, for worrying him, for adding to the burdens he already carries on his laden shoulders.

He shakes his head, dismissing her words in the casual manner that he usually does.

“There’s no need to apologize to me Lizzie. I am just… thankful… that you’re ok.” She senses he isn’t just thankful, that he’s  _relieved_  or  _overjoyed_. She knows she would be if the roles had been reversed. Lizzie feels a tug in her stomach when she imagines Red, bleeding and prone on the cold wet road; she shakes her head once more to rid herself of the troubling image.

“I do…” she starts, then pauses, not knowing how to voice her worries, her secrets, her fears. “I do need to apologize. I was reckless today, distracted.”

He nods in agreement then, and Lizzie worries that he  _knows_ , knows her biggest secret without her saying a word, that he’s been able to read her as easily with this as he’s been able to read everything about her since he came charging into her life.

“I sensed your focus wasn’t entirely on the job today,” Red confesses, tilting his head to observe her. “It worried me but I didn’t comment. And then… well…” he gestures to her side again as if to prove his point. Raymond Reddington rarely needs to say the words “I told you so”; his actions are often enough to voice the phrase on his behalf. 

“Can we sit?” Lizzie utters quietly, waving her arm in the direction of the small couch that lies between her position at the door and his at the fire. Red nods and moves slowly to sit on the piece of furniture. His eyes never leave her as she moves.

“Would you like a drink Lizzie?” he asks out of the blue, once they are both settled and as comfortable as they can be. He has brought his own drink with him, the tumbler resting on his thigh.

“No, thank you,” she answers, though her throat is dry and her fingers ache for something to hold just to keep her occupied. She makes do with picking at a frayed thread at the hem of her blouse.

They slip into silence again, Red watching her and Lizzie watching the flames flicker in the hearth.

“I’ve been distracted for a while,” Lizzie eventually confesses, returning her gaze to his.

“Mmm, I’ve noticed.”

His tone isn’t accusing, instead concerned.

Lizzie takes a deep breath, and sighs. This is it, she knows; the point of no return. But she understands, deep down, that if she doesn’t air this secret, if she doesn’t share its heavy burden with him, she’ll sink under its weight and he might not be there to stop the bleeding hole in her body next time.

“I’ve… I’ve been having dreams…” she starts, voice wavering. Red’s gaze doesn’t falter though, and he just tilts his head slightly. His face remains neutral, but she knows him well enough to sense that he has questions. Sure enough, he asks one after a couple of quiet seconds, the only other noise the pattering of rain on the old windows.

“Nightmares?” he asks, worry crossing his face again.

Lizzie shakes her head, a rueful smile gracing her lips.  _I wish,_  she thinks,  _it’d be so much easier._

“No,” she continues.  _Now or never Lizzie…_ “Dreams… about us. You. And me.”

He raises his eyebrow, the only indication that he is surprised by her confession. She expects a lascivious comment, a smirk or maybe innuendo. She gets none of that; just his silence and the urge to reveal everything all at once.

“You save me… in the dreams,” she clarifies, leaning over to take his tumbler from his hand and sip at the strong scotch. He doesn’t comment. “I’m in my motel room, and I’m woken… attacked, threatened. Normally by Tom. But sometimes it’s Garrick, or Zanatakos. Occasionally Berlin. But it’s always the same; you save me.”

“I sense my heroic endeavors in your subconscious aren’t the reason for your distraction?” He knows that they aren’t, she can tell, but he isn’t going to force a confession out of her; even in this he is allowing her the time to deal with her thoughts.

Again, Lizzie shakes her head.

“No, it’s what happens afterwards, between the two of us…we…” she lets her statement hang in the air, willing him to get the idea without her voicing the words. Her heart is beating against her chest and she closes her eyes, breathes in once, twice, in a bid to calm her fraying nerves.

“I see,” Red comments, nodding in understanding. His voice is quiet in the large room and Lizzie suddenly feels safe, confident, like everything is going to be ok. “And you’re… conflicted… about your feelings, about our actions?” He gestures between them, and Lizzie watches as his fingers flex towards her, as if his own subconscious wants to make a connection, to touch her. It’s strange how he’s so bold when she sleeps and suddenly so hesitant to reach for her when she is most desperate for his touch.

“That’s the thing,” Lizzie says, grateful that he  _gets_  it, that he isn’t mocking her. “I’m not, I’m _really_ not. I just… I don’t know how…”

He pauses, eyes her carefully. Because this is it, the point where they’re either both on the same wavelength, or they’re not; either they do this together or she ruins whatever tentative friendship that they have worked so hard to re-establish between them. Lizzie senses  _something_ in Red’s eyes, a look of almost relief, and a smile slowly spread across his face.

“What do you want Lizzie?”

And she laughs then, loud and long, because of course he’d use that phrase, of  _course_  that’s how he’ll pull the last of her confession from her. Maybe he  _has_  known her secret all along, has guarded it like every other piece of information he knows of her.

He eyes her as she laughs, and waits, patiently, for her to finish, to be ready. Because that’s what he always does.

Eventually she manages to calm herself down and turns to look at him, her previous joviality forgotten as she catches his eye. She sighs again, and reaches out to tentatively take his hand in hers. It’s a bold move she realizes, this whole thing could still backfire, leave her with no allies in the world; she is risking everything for this, for  _him_.

Red, however, practically grins as her and laces his fingers through her own. He gives her palm a light squeeze as he does so.  Still he waits; it’s her move to make, it always has been.

There is a pause, a long one, as she glances between their interlinked fingers and his face. She smiles back at him, returning his calming gesture and finally, eventually, speaks…

“ _You_ Red, I just want you.”

He doesn’t move initially, just remains still. Lizzie suspects he’s savoring the moment, similar to the way he savors the fine wines he’s prone to drinking. Eventually he squeezes her hand again, and she finds the touch so reassuring that she can ignore the way her heart is beating seemingly too fast in her chest.

“Well then, I’m sure I can oblige you Lizzie,” he says, before he leans in and captures her lips with his own.

Lizzie thinks, as she pulls him closer, that reality is  _definitely_  better than fantasy…

 


End file.
